Curious Companion
by TheJesusFreak777
Summary: They were friends out of situation: certainly, in any other world, Dean would not have considered being friends with poor Loony Lovegood. In hindsight, he's glad he is.


**A/N: Praying for the families of the victims on Flight 9268.**

 **Not my best work, but definitely not my worst. Please read and review.**

* * *

That night, Dean Thomas dreamt that he was running.

It was dark and he was floundering through the night, his chest heaving, lungs detonating, legs scorching. He covered his mouth and blundered through the forest, tripping on undergrowth and falling face-first at one point. The only thing that indicated he was human was the fear in his heart, the adrenaline that threatened to kill him. He saw a jet of green light shoot over his shoulder and strike a pine tree just to his left, exploding in a cloud of splinters. He could hear Ted scream as a ray hit him, then abruptly end.

Tears streamed down Dean's face, and he hit the ground and fell. This time he stayed down. Hard hands gripped him by the shoulders, heaving him upwards, and he stared into the face of his attacker-

"Dean! Wake up!"

He lashed out, his bed sheets tangling and his heart thudding wildly. His fist connected with something hard and someone let out a yelp of pain.

"What the hell are you doing, Dean?"

He struggled to catch his breath, his mind full of nothing but pain, nothing but the murder of Ted Tonks.

"You were thrashing wildly," the voice repeated. He couldn't recognize it. "Lumos." The speaker's wand tip illuminated, and a scarred, pockmarked face stared back at him.

"You're ill," the man said gravely. He touched a hand gingerly to his forehead. "Fever, still?"

"I suppose so." Dean gazed around, bewildered. Shadows cast around the room made it impossible to recall where he was. "Wher-Who are you?"

"Bill Weasley," the man said, extending his hand. Dean didn't shake it. "You had a rough few days," the man continued. "We weren't sure you would make it."

"'We?'" Dean echoed. His memory was foggy. After Ted's death, he could remember nothing but flashes of a stone cellar, irrevocable pain surging through his veins until he thought he was on fire, igniting at that second…

"My wife and I." Dean must have still looked confused, because Bill went on. "Fleur and I have been keeping a close eye on you and the others."

"The others?" he repeated. "Is-Is Dirk Cresswell here, and Gornuk and Griphook?"

Bill's face held an ominous answer, one Dean knew before he spoke. "Only Griphook is here out of those three. Are you sure you're all right?"

"What happened?" he blurted, helpless.

"Dobby rescued you from Malfoy Manor," Bill murmured. "You and Luna Lovegood, Ron, Harry, Hermione Granger, Ollivander, and Griphook."

"Dirk and Gornuk?" He had to hope.

"I'm afraid not."

Dean shut his eyes and tried to wrap his brain around this information. "Why, why were we in Malfoy Manor?"

"You don't remember?"

"I don't remember anything. "

Bill frowned and touched his forehead once again. "You feel feverish. I'll have Fleur bring you something in a bit. Snatchers caught you all in the forest, took you to the Malfoys. They tortured you all-Hermione's not yet woke up. You came back what, two days ago? Dobby died. You helped bury him and went to bed, never woke up until now. We had to put you on your side, Fleur was afraid you'd throw up and choke in your sleep."

Dean wanted to die, right then.

"The Cruciatus Curse probably weakened your system," Bill added. "That's why you're sick. You're not nearly as bad off as Hermione." Bill gestured with the lit wand to the beds beside Dean. He saw several sleeping forms and recognized Hermione's face, although it looked incredibly different and tired. Beyond her, he thought he saw Ron.

"Is she okay?"

"She will be."

Dean shook his head. He was tortured under the Cruciatus Curse. "Do you have my wand?" he croaked.

"'Fraid not. It must have broke." Bill cleared his throat. "I'll go see if Fleur can bring you something for your fever."

"Where's the loo?" Dean asked hoarsely.

"To the right, when you leave this room," Bill said over his shoulder.

Dean waited until he had vanished before standing. Instantly sharp pain shot up his leg to hip. In the hallway he examined it under better light. A long red gash marked his entire leg. It was inflamed and warm to the touch, no doubt the source of his fever. He hobbled to the bathroom and gazed in the mirror. What stared back he didn't recognize. His face was sunken, eyes hollow. He could count his ribs. He must have lost twenty pounds in the time he'd been on the run.

"Ted! Ted!" he sobbed.

His head throbbed as he limped back to bed.

He woke the next morning to Fleur, the veela, holding a cup of tea and standing beside him. "'Ello, monsieur. Comment te sens-tu?"

"Pardon?" Dean asked.

"'Ow do you feel?"

"Better, thanks."

"'Zat's good. You 'ad us scared." She smiled and left.

Dean drank the tea and let it warm his stiff limbs. Glancing around, he realized everyone else-including Hermione-were gone. Startled, he stood. Was she healed? What if-What if she were dead?

No. It can't be. But new fear was coursing through Dean's veins, and quickly he slipped out the door, lurching down the hall. He could hear voices talking. He stepped into a kitchen and was greeted by Bill, who was cooking, and Griphook, who looked to be sickly.

"Where's Hermione?" Dean rasped.

"She's outside," Bill said, a shadow passing across his face. "Visiting Dobby's grave."

Dean could have collapsed, he was so thankful. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to learn that another classmate was dead. He sat down next to Luna Lovegood.

"Nargles are supposed to help feet," she said, gesturing to his leg. Suddenly self-conscious, he dragged his leg under the table, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"I'll have to find some for you," Luna added. Dean only nodded distractedly. He ate his food without tasting it and answered Bill's questions without listening.

"Let me look at your leg," he offered. Dean initially shied away from the idea, as he disliked doctors and Healers, let alone inexperienced men poking around at his body. But he decided it was better than being in pain, and rolled up his pants' leg.

"Looks infected," Bill muses. "This doesn't look like sectumsempra, either, that wouldn't infect." He turns and begins rummaging through the cabinets until he opens a corked bottle. "This might hurt."

It did. Dean grasped the side of the table to keep himself from flinching as Bill poured the potion on his wound. Luna observed through milky eyes.

"Where're Harry and Ron?" he asked.

"With Hermione."

"Is she okay?"

"Better than you," is all Bill answered with.

That night he couldn't sleep. Ted's ghost was waiting for him, Cresswell and Gornuk perhaps would be too. He stared at the ceiling and watched the shadows lengthen, the roar of the waves crashing into the stony shore lulling the others to sleep. Harry and Ron were asleep; Dean could recognize their snores after sharing a dorm with them for years. Hermione cried out in her sleep several times. The next morning Dean saw her red eyes and knew she hadn't slept well. Hermione, Harry, Ron, and Griphook vanished into a room and stayed there the entire day, no doubt plotting something. Ollivander stayed in his own room, in anguish and pain. The pattern continued for days.

"Want to play chess?" Luna asked.

Dean was restless, having not left Shell Cottage since his arrival. It wasn't as if he could be picky about his company at the moment. They played chess for the day, matches upon matches until they had lost track and the gloom had crept up to Shell Cottage.

"You dated Padma, didn't you?" Luna asked the next day, as they played Gobstones.

"Er, no." Dean studied the Gobstones before rolling one forward. "No, I wanted to date her, though."

"But she didn't?"

"I guess not," Dean murmured. That had been in his fifth year.

"But you did date Ginny," Luna muses.

"Yeah."

"Why did that end?" She didn't sound particularly curious or gossipy. It was more like she was asking the question for the sake of asking it.

"I guess she got fed up with me," he said, trying to laugh. His throat was dry and it was impossible to laugh at the matter of having your first love call you trash and stomp over your heart.

"She liked you, and you liked her."

"Yeah." Dean hoped Harry wasn't in the vicinity to hear. He cleared his throat. "Your turn." In truth Dean liked Ginny more than he hoped Luna knew. He often stayed wide awake at night, staring at the ceiling, hoping she was okay, that she was careful, that she was safe. He had memorized every word of their last argument, turning them over in his head and wondering what he could do to change its outcome. No, Dean didn't like Ginny. He was in love with her, and every morning and evening when he saw Harry his heart clenched because he knew Ginny loved him.

Dean wondered about his family when he wasn't occupied with chess or Gobstones. His sisters and mother and stepfather… Were they okay without him? Would Death Eaters think to approach them on his whereabouts? It was too risky to send them an owl. He remembered Anna, who was fourteen now, and Margo, who would be nine. He had missed both of their birthdays. When all this ends, Dean vowed, he would take Margo to a national football match, and buy Anna pearls to make up for all their bickering.

If all this ended.

"Do you have any siblings?" he asked Luna.

"No," she said. "I wish I did. Daddy says I don't need them, really, because I'm not home half the year. I think he's lonely."

"I have two half-sisters."

"What are they like?"

"Anna is fourteen. She's snooty and a pain in the arse most of the time but I love her. She does ballet. Margo is nine and plays football. She's ornery."

"Muggles?"

"Yes."

"You must miss them," Luna commented.

"I do, yeah." It had been almost a year since he'd seen them. "I miss them more than anything in the world." He was surprised that his throat seemed to swell shut, and he turned his face away from her so she couldn't see his eyes shining with tears.

"I'd like to meet them sometime," Luna said, her voice uncharacteristically sober.

Dean nodded, but inwardly he wondered if either Luna or he would ever get the chance to see them again. He said nothing, however.

"You know," Luna said, "I think Bill and Fleur have a dabberblimp living in their cabinet."

Dean was grateful for the change in conversation. "A what?"

"They like damp places," Luna explained, as if that settled the matter.

Days turned to weeks. Restlessly Dean paced the hallway in his spare time, wishing that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Griphook would reveal their plans. If Luna shared any of his frustrations, she didn't show it.

That supper Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Griphook revealed they were leaving the following morning. The next days passed in a slow lull. He had no idea what the others were up to; he only hoped they succeeded.

"What do you think of all this, Luna?" Dean asked.

"Think of what?"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Harry. Us hiding."

She hesitated. "I believe Harry can defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," she said at last. "And we've made friends of each other, haven't we?"

Eight Months Later

Dean woke up in the morning, when the sun was just beginning to peek through the windows. He yawned and stretched. His sleep had been undisturbed. He walked down the hall of his flat and gazed out the window for several heartbeats, looking down into the alley below. It wasn't much of a sight, but Dean was thankful for it nevertheless. Sloppily stacked on his nightstand were ten or fifteen postcards from various locations: New York City, Maui, Buenos Aires, Cape Town, Nepal. As he walked down the hall to his kitchen he passed pictures on the wall of girls who looked almost identical to him: a young girl with a toothy grin, her eyes twinkling with mischief; an older one with pink lipstick and silver earrings.

Eight months ago, if you asked Dean Thomas where he saw himself living, he would say a grave. Today, he goes to the kitchen and drinks coffee, opens the Prophet, and has tickets to see Puddlemere United play Saturday with Seamus, Parvati, and Padma, whom he was currently seeing.

He turned over his mail and smiled. The first was a letter brought to him by an owl concerning an open job position at work; the second was a cream-colored envelope. He tore it open.

* * *

 _Dean-_

 _Hello from Venice. Rolf and I have encountered traces of the Crumple-Horned Snorack here. Expect photos soon to follow._

 _Thank you for sending me pictures of Margo and Anna. I hope I can meet them soon._

 _I'll be in London in two weeks, with Rolf. Hope to meet you at the Leaky Cauldron. We'll arrange a date and time later, I suppose. I have seen neither head nor tails of you or any of my other friends from Hogwarts, although Ginny and Harry have both sent me several letters._

 _Hope to see you soon._

 _-Luna_

* * *

Enclosed in the envelope was a photograph of Luna and this Rolf character (who Dean wasn't particularly keen of). He towered over her, both of them looking into the camera and smiling, pigeons perched on their shoulders and bird seed scattered around. In the background, St. Mark's Cathedral loomed like some sort of safe presence.

If anyone could see Luna now, or himself, Dean thought, they would barely be able to recognize them from their time at Shell Cottage. And, thinking a little more on the matter, Dean realized it was a good thing.


End file.
